The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  Burton smiled, took his assistant's top hat from the stand, and pushed it down over the little poet's mop of red hair.

  “Very well, Algy. In truth, I'll be glad of your help, though I must confess, I was looking forward to using the rotorchair. I like flying! It's a shame the contraptions are single-seaters. I suppose we'll have to resort to the train.”

  “No we won't.” Swinburne grinned. “I have a much better idea.”

  “Why, it's Captain Burton and Mr. Swinburne!” Miss Isabella Mayson exclaimed. “How lovely to see you again. Come in! Come in!”

  Doffing their hats, the two men stepped into the SPARTA building.

  “I've just made some soup. Will you join us?”

  “Thank you, that would be most welcome,” said Burton. He and Swinburne followed her through to the kitchen. As they crossed the threshold, a heavenly aroma assailed their nostrils, and there came an exclamation: “Hallo, hallo! Welcome to the chamber of bloomin’ miracles, gents!”

  It was the voice rather than the face they recognised, for the vagrant philosopher Herbert Spencer had blossomed into something that might almost be called respectable. Above all, he looked cleaner; his beard had been shaved off, his large side-whiskers were combed, and the thin border of curly hair around his bald head was now short and neat, rather than wild and straggly. He'd filled out, too, losing the hungry gauntness that had marked him when they'd last met.

  “I swears to you,” he said, shaking their hands, “there's no woman what can cook like Miss Mayson in the whole blessed world!”

  “Herbert!” Swinburne said. “You look a new man!”

  “It's the grub! This young lady here is a blinkin’ marvel with the dogs an’ the birds, but I tells you, gents, in the kitchen she's somethin’ else entirely! I ain't never indulged in victuals like it.”

  “Thank you, Herbert,” said Miss Mayson. “Would you set a couple more places around the table, please? Our two friends will join us for lunch.”

  Moments later, the king's agent and his assistant were enjoying a thick vegetable soup served with freshly baked bread.

  “This is utterly delicious!” Burton declared.

  “Utterly utterly!” Swinburne added.

  “Told you so!” said Spencer. “There ain't nothin’ so nourishing!”

  “And you're obviously flourishing!” Swinburne rhymed.

  “On which note, have you been ill?” Miss Mayson asked of Burton. “You look a little jaundiced.”

  “I have been, yes. I suffer occasional bouts of malaria. The attacks are decreasing in frequency since my return from Africa but this latest was a bad one. Flying your swan through a rainstorm didn't help.”

  “That were a nasty night, Boss,” Spencer observed. “I came down with the sniffles meself.”

  “As a matter of fact, Miss Mayson—”

  “Isabella, please!”

  “Isabella. Swans are the reason for us dropping by. I was hoping we could hire a couple.”

  “The last time you borrowed my swans, two were killed and one never came back,” the young woman noted, with a wry smile.

  Burton nodded in acknowledgement. “I trust Scotland Yard compensated you?”

  “Very generously, as a matter of fact.”

  Spencer waved his spoon and announced: “That young Constable Bhatti has been here nearly every blinkin’ day, the scallywag!”

  “It's on his beat, Herbert,” Miss Mayson protested.

  “Ha! He's givin’ you the glad eye, that's what it is!”

  A faint blush coloured the woman's cheeks and she said: “Actually, I think that brain of yours is the attraction. Why, when the two of you start philosophising, I can barely get a word in!”

  She turned to Burton. “I have a couple of new swans that are fairly well behaved. For how long will you need them?”

  “Two, three, maybe four days. We'll be staying at a country house in Hampshire. I believe there's a large lake on the grounds, so they'll be quite comfortable.”

  “’Specially if I come along to look after ’em!” Spencer interjected.

  “There's no need to trouble yourself, old fellow,” said Burton.

  “It ain't no trouble at all!”

  Miss Mayson agreed. “It's an excellent idea. Swans can be a handful, gentlemen, but Herbert has the magic touch. Even the parakeets love him! I would feel far happier if he went with you. There's sure to be a local village where he can put up, or maybe your hosts will find room for him in the servants’ quarters?”

  Burton considered the vagrant, and asked him: “Would you object to rooming with the staff? It might be useful for me to have a man on the inside, as it were.”

  “Don't worry, Boss, I knows me proper station in life. Servants’ quarters are a step up for the likes o’ me!”

  “Then I'll be very happy to have you accompany us to Tichborne House.”

  “Tichborne?” Spencer and Miss Mayson chorused.

  “Yes, I'm investigating the matter.”

  “Cor blimey! Well, I never did in all me born days! That's a right turn up, an’ no mistake!” Spencer mused, philosophically.

  An hour later, the three men, sitting in box kites, bade Isabella Mayson goodbye and were jerked into the air.

  They steered between vertical shafts of smoke as they crossed the great city, heading in a westerly direction with the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral glinting in the sunlight behind them.

  It was mild and pleasant and Burton felt a thrill of freedom as the vista expanded around him. England's tight horizons had always given him a sense of claustrophobia. They were so unlike the vast distances of India, Africa, and Arabia, and it felt wonderfully liberating to see them drawing back as he gained altitude.

  Soon, the crowded and dirty city dropped behind until only towns, villages, fields, forests, and rivers populated the landscape. It was densely green and possessed a warm cosiness quite different from any other country he'd ever visited.

  “I suppose you're not so bad, old England,” he murmured, and blew out a breath in surprise. That was a sentiment he'd never expressed before!

  “Wheeee-oooo!” came a cry, and Swinburne shot past, a blur of white swan feathers and bright red poet's hair.

  “Look alive, Boss! The race is on!” Spencer yelled, whipping past Burton on the other side.

  The king's agent grinned savagely, snapped his bird's reins, and bellowed: “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

  His swan responded magnificently, pumping its wings so hard that the sudden acceleration pushed Burton back in his canvas seat. In this still air, his kite glided along smoothly, with none of the gut-churning twisting and tumbling that had characterised his pursuit of Brunel.

  The small town of Weybridge slid beneath as Burton's bird caught up with Spencer's and overtook it.

  “Keep up, dawdler!”

  As the philosopher fell behind, Burton set his sights on Swinburne, who was by now a considerable distance ahead. The poet's bird was undoubtedly the fastest of the three, but did it possess endurance enough to hold the lead all the way to Tichborne House?

  Burton settled into the chase.

  They soared over Woking, then Aldershot, and, as they passed Farnham, he finally caught up with his assistant.

  “Your bird's slowing!” he shouted.

  “We shouldn't push them too hard!” Swinburne yelled back. “I concede defeat! You've won. Let's rein them in a little.”

  They slowed, relaxed, flapped on. Herbert Spencer came abreast.

  The sun was sagging lazily at the edge of the sky as Itchen Valley hove into view, the light golden on its pastures, the shadows long and darkly blue.

  Burton led them onward, sinking down, flying low over patchwork fields and the rooftops of Bishop's Sutton to the village of Alresford. They veered in a southwesterly direction, passed over high hedges and rich water meadows, and arrived at the Tichborne estate.

  Circling a willow-bordered lake, they flew low along its shore and yanked their release straps. The thr
ee box kites separated from the birds, drifted earthward, touched the grass, tumbled, and came to a standstill. The swans beat their wings and swept up over the willow trees and down onto the water beyond, landing with splashes and honks of delight. They paddled contentedly and watched through the drooping branches as the men clambered out of their wood and canvas carriages, each pulling a portmanteau from the large storage pockets at the rear of the kites.

  “It's a precarious experience, landing these blinkin’ things,” Spencer commented.

  “Exciting, though,” said Swinburne.

  “Yus, lad, that as well,” the philosopher agreed. “I'll go an’ remove the birds’ harnesses.”

  While Spencer dealt with the swans, Burton and Swinburne dismantled and folded the kites.

  A man approached. He was wearing a fustian shooting jacket and baggy corduroy trousers, and held a double-barrelled shotgun crooked over his elbow. With his short dark hair, drooping mustache, and swarthy skin, he bore a passing resemblance to the king's agent, though he was shorter and lacked the habitual frown.

  “Here, what's this, then?” he demanded.

  “Good afternoon. Don't worry yourself, my good man. We're expected. I'm Burton.”

  “Ah, yes, sir, sorry, sir. Colonel Lushington said you'd be arriving. I'm Guilfoyle, the groundsman.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Guilfoyle. Is it all right with you if we leave our swans on the lake?”

  “Of course, sir. There's plenty for them to eat in there, so they won't go hungry.”

  Spencer rejoined them and was introduced: “This is Mr. Herbert Spencer, their keeper. He'll be down here from time to time to tend to them.”

  “Very well, sir,” Guilfoyle answered, raising his cap to Spencer. “They're expecting you at the house, gentlemen. I'll walk you up. Leave your kites here. I'll find a place to store them.”

  “Thank you.”

  They followed the groundsman up the gently sloping lawn, which rose from the lake to the back of the house, skirted around the ivy-clad building, and arrived at its front. Beyond a carriageway, wheat fields stretched up to the brow of a distant low hill.

  “Those are the famous Crawls,” Guilfoyle remarked.

  “Crawls?”

  “Aye. The fields old Mabella de Tichborne encircled to set the dole. Do you know the legend?”

  “Yes. Bismillah! What a distance! No wonder she dropped dead!”

  “Aye, sir, and no wonder she cursed the place first!”

  Guilfoyle nodded a farewell and made to depart, but then stopped and gave a slightly strangled cough.

  “Is there something else, my man?” Burton asked.

  The groundsman removed his cap and pulled it nervously through his fingers.

  “Well, sir, it's just that—that—well, what I mean is—”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, gentlemen, if you don't mind me sayin’ so, you should be careful at night. Stay in your rooms. That's all. Stay in your rooms.”

  He turned and walked away, not looking back.

  “How extraordinary!” Swinburne exclaimed.

  “Yes, very odd,” Burton agreed. “Come on, let's go and announce ourselves.”

  Four white Tuscan columns framed the entrance to the grand house. The three men climbed the steps and passed between them, through the portico. Swinburne tugged at a bellpull. It felt loose in his hand.

  “Humph! Seems like the spring's broken!” he grunted, and used the brass knocker instead.

  After a minute or so, the door was opened and a small, elderly, white-haired, and pleasant-faced Jamaican greeted them. Andrew Bogle, the butler.

  “Sir Richard Burton and associates to see Colonel Lushington,” the king's agent announced.

  “Yes, sir. Please come in. If you'd like to wait in the Reception Room, I'll inform the colonel that you have arrived.”

  They were escorted into a plush chamber, where the butler left them, and were joined a few minutes later by a tall, smartly dressed, broad-shouldered man of ramrod-straight military bearing. Bronzed by an outdoor life, he appeared to be in his early sixties. He wore his greying hair cut very short, but possessed extravagant muttonchop whiskers, which stood out horizontally, ending in carefully waxed thin points above the tips of his shoulders.

  “Good afternoon,” he barked. “Or evening. Which? No matter! Colonel Franklin Lushington is my name. Lushington will do. No formality required. Colonel, if you prefer. I'm glad you're here, Sir Richard. Henry Arundell speaks very highly of you. You are Sir Richard, aren't you? No mistake?”

  “None, sir. I'm Burton.”

  They shook hands, and Burton introduced his companions.

  After arranging a room for Spencer—“below stairs” with the servants—to which he was escorted by Bogle, Burton and Swinburne followed Lushington to the library.

  Supplied with the obligatory brandies and cigars, they settled into high-backed armchairs and got to business.

  “Sir Alfred will join us for supper,” Lushington advised. “Or perhaps not. The plain unvarnished fact of the matter is—let's not beat about the bush—he's been behaving erratically in recent days and isn't reliable. I tell you that in confidence, of course. He doesn't always make sense. Some sort of nervous breakdown, I fancy.”

  “I suppose the reappearance of his elder brother is to blame?” Burton suggested.

  “Absolutely. Well, that's my theory, anyway. I should warn you that he'll tell you a cock-and-bull story about a ghost.”

  “A ghost, by Gad!” Burton exclaimed, startled by the occurrence of yet another coincidence. Tichborne and Brundleweed, both haunted?

  “Absolute rot, of course,” Lushington added. “Unless it's true. Who knows? I hear there's great enthusiasm for table-tapping in London these days, so maybe there's something in all that life-after-death nonsense, but I'm inclined to think otherwise. Have you ever been to a séance? I haven't. Don't see the need for them.”

  Burton leaned forward. “So you haven't witnessed anything yourself?”

  Lushington hesitated, took a gulp from his glass, and answered: “I haven't seen anything, no …. Well, that is to say, not with my eyes. But I must admit, I might have spotted something with my ears. Spotted? No. Hah! Obviously a man doesn't see with his ears. Ahem! I mean I heard something. But then there's an awful lot to hear in a big old house like this, so it was probably nothing. Perhaps mice, except they don't knock, that's the thing of it.”

  “You heard knocking?” Burton was beginning to feel more than a little frustrated by the colonel's rambling manner of speech.

  Lushington shook his head, coughed, and nodded. “That's right, I did. Knocking, these two nights past, as if someone were walking through the house banging on the walls. Not mice, then. I don't know why I said mice.”

  “Did you investigate?”

  “Of course, military instinct. Seek out the enemy. On both occasions, as I approached the noise, it stopped.”

  “The enemy mice ran away?” put in Swinburne, mischievously.

  “Quite so, if it was mice, which it obviously wasn't.”

  “So what was it then?” Burton asked.

  “Not a clue. Haven't the remotest idea. Completely at a loss. The foundations settling as the day's heat dissipated, perhaps? Ah! There you have it! Mystery solved!”

  Over the course of the next two hours, they reviewed the history of the Tichborne family and the circumstances leading up to the Claimant's imminent arrival. He was due at the house the day after tomorrow, and Lushington was eager to see the individual who'd caused such a furore.

  “Bogle, the butler, the Jamaican fellow—at least I think he's Jamaican. West Indian, anyway—has been with the family for many years. He knew Roger Tichborne and will be sure to recognise him on sight. Then there's the resident physician, or doctor—what's the difference?—Jankyn, and the groundsman, er—er—er—”

  “Guilfoyle,” Swinburne offered.

  “Ah!” Lushington responded. “Is he, indeed?
And your name, sir?”

  “Algernon Swinburne. We were introduced earlier, if you remember. Are you really in charge of the estate's finances?”

  “What of Sir Alfred's opinion?” Burton interrupted hastily. “Surely you aren't discounting that? He is, after all, the brother.”

  “True, but he also has a vested interest. I'm sure he'd much rather this fellow was exposed as an outright crook. If not, he loses the estate.”

  Burton looked surprised. “Surely you don't mean to suggest that he might purposely deny his brother simply to keep hold of the title?”

  “Good lord, of course not!”

  A gong sounded and echoed through the house.

  “That's the summons to supper or dinner or something similar. What time is it? Clocks don't work here. I never have the vaguest idea what the confounded hour is!”

  The king's agent frowned and pulled out his pocket watch.

  “It's half-past six. What do you mean, clocks don't work?”

  “Simply that. Every timepiece in this house stopped a month or so ago. I daresay yours will, too, if you stay here long enough. Perhaps it's something to do with the position of the building and the Earth's magnetics. I wouldn't know. I'm a soldier, not a Technologist! Anyway, Bogle will take you and your luggage up to the guest rooms so you can change into your evening wear. Just a formality. Observing the rituals. The mark of civilisation. A man should always dress for whatever it is, don't you think? We'll reconvene in the dining room in fifteen minutes. You'll meet Sir Alfred there. If he comes. He may not.”

  A quarter of an hour later, wearing their formal attire, Burton and Swinburne descended the grand staircase. The poet giggled, remembering that his friend had, a few weeks ago, come down a similar staircase in a far less controlled fashion. He wondered whether Sir Roderick Murchison would ever forgive Burton.

  They passed along the hall, in which polished suits of armour stood silent guard, and entered the long dining room. A grand table dominated its centre, and all around it the walls were hung with portraits.

  Bogle bowed as they entered. Colonel Lushington greeted them.

  “That's the young Roger Tichborne,” he said, pointing at one of the paintings. “While that—” he turned and indicated another “—is his ancestor, the notorious Roger de Tichborne. The same name, you'll note, except for the de. It means of, I believe. Roger of Tichborne, on account of the fact that he was—”